No longer his day, it will
come around again—
through slowly stretching
hours of light into shrinking
nights till contraction and expansion
trade places, then trade
again. Just after that final click
to go in reverse, his day
will return. And I hope to be
around to touch it—those untouchable
vibrations and holds.
They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me
from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.
I don’t remember
the sock monkey, but do
remember our fear
of it. My shadow tripped
over its own darkness
onto stumble
down tracks that no longer
exist. Today I remember
to find light in these
shortest of days,
have almost perfected turning
a corner
into a new moment’s alley
on an evening
you don’t have to carry
me home.
Four children four
seasons—does it begin
with spring or winter?
It all depends—
whether we are dormant
before we live, whether
we can begin again, whether
autumn counts at all.
Ink smears over knuckles,
a left-hander drags
her thoughts through the past.
No moment
is left clean.
I can imagine Matteo Pericoli out there
beneath the Brooklyn Bridge counting
trusses and cables and stays. I can
see the world go blue against white
detailing and tiny capital
letters that march arrogantly into
the empty.
Never could keep them
so straight and clean and strong.
My architecture doesn’t lay out
pretty. Still, if I were a character
in a novel, this is
where it would really begin.
To shout “my socks
are wet” inside a crowded church
before it all begins
is to believe
in the beauty of echoes
as they become prayer.
Shellac the night
to morning, morning to
afternoon. A mail box
and a lamp post
uprooted and toppled
onto the only path left. Action lies
beneath frozen rain sheets. What begins
may endure longer than anyone
might imagine. And then there’s the full moon.
Madness of the mud
but she doesn’t
sculpt. Passion for digging
into soil rich
in nutrients
for thought, but
she doesn’t garden.
One more contradiction—
and her obsession will be complete.
For Steve
A spring rain
essence hangs in the air
on a Saturday morning
in October, triggers memories
of any season
up for grabs. We hunt for rats
in the NYC subway,
on its streets, behind
its garbage bins
in alleys. Summer in the City
always makes a statement
to the nose. Bad
puns and monotony
breaking drinks to keep us
warm on a Minnesota winter
night. I came unprepared. You
had no idea what you were
getting yourself into—out of.
On the west bank
of the Saint Croix,
we read through
all I had written
come spring. It came
so violently, I almost faded
dead away
by my own hand. Was it yours
that crossed out
the almost
18 years later—the slow
desperation of a soul dying
to be free.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 